


A Shift in the Balance

by tiger_moran



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: Angst, Love, M/M, Minor Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-20
Updated: 2013-08-20
Packaged: 2017-12-24 04:09:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/935146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiger_moran/pseuds/tiger_moran
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Having been badly injured at the Reichenbach Falls, Moriarty slowly recovers but reacts badly to Moran's increased control over him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Shift in the Balance

**Author's Note:**

> The prompt for this was the following: "While Moriarty was recovering (after Reichenbach if you like) , Moran has acquired more and more power over Moriarty (taking care of him,making decision for him,controlling every aspect of his life) and over his organization. The long months of recovery have changed the professor (paranoia/insomnia/permanent injures... what you prefer!) : he HAS to regain control over his empire. M. imprison Moran. (no torture? Restrained,beaten up). Up to you the end."
> 
> I have used most of these ideas here but have only partly gone with some elements, as overall the prompt seems to be for something a bit darker than I like or write.

    Moriarty always comes to bed later now, if he comes at all. There are nights when he remains locked in his study all night, perhaps dozing there, or perhaps not sleeping at all, Moran cannot tell as the message is clear to him: he is not welcome in there.

    Moran frets, as he did all through the professor’s long period of total helplessness, when he feared that Moriarty might not even survive, then that he would survive, but not recover; that his body might be irreparably broken, his limbs too mangled to leave him anything but a cripple.

    That Moriarty is able to walk again is a testament to his own steely determination as well as to Moran’s relentless care for him and the expensive medical treatment the colonel provided. He did not survive unscathed however. Both legs were badly broken and though the worst of the damage has healed, his right leg in particular retains a peculiar twist that makes the professor limp heavily. Walking, even with a cane, has become a great effort for him and one that exhausts him, rather than something he takes for granted. He has adapted, as he must, but he has not necessarily adapted _well_.

    Worse, he shuts Moran out – not simply just physically, with the locking of his study door, but more metaphorically speaking. Although he grudgingly accepted Moran’s aid when he was even less mobile, deciding that humiliating as it was to be so helpless, Moran was moderately more endurable than a hired nurse, since Moriarty has begun to move about more he has barely touched Moran. No embraces, no caresses, no kisses. Not even a kind word. Their conversations are perfunctory and brief, without affection, and there are days when barely a word passes between them. Moran has all but given up on trying to draw him into idle conversation about items of interest in the newspapers or onto the topic of the publication of a new book he thinks Moriarty might like, and has ceased trying to get the professor to agree to go to some music recital or operatic performance with him. Moriarty cannot conceive of obtaining the slightest bit of pleasure out of something he once enjoyed, not with this near-constant pain and when he is able to walk no more than a few paces, and that at great cost to his energy.

    Often he can see that Moran desperately wants more; that he yearns to return to how things were between them before the fall, when Moriarty could often display real warmth towards him in private. But things aren’t like that now, are they? Things have changed. Everything has shifted and Moran…

     Moran has taken over, and this makes Moriarty angry. Who better to run things than his right hand man, his chief of staff? But Moran has no right to try to take over entirely. His brief taste of power over Moriarty himself and his criminal empire both has given him ideas above his station. How dare he think he has any right to take charge of everything from planning a daring robbery to deciding what clothing Moriarty should wear and what he should eat? That Moran had no choice but to do this during Moriarty’s long recovery he is well aware of, and that in reality he despises his own weakness, his own impotence, and not really Moran, but this knowledge cannot fully temper his fury, which must be directed somewhere without rather than within. Besides, Moriarty _is_ recovering; he _is_ capable now of at least choosing his own food and clothing, yet Moran, having slipped into the habit of taking charge, continues to try to decide these for him. This is not acceptable.

     And so he behaves with increasing coldness towards his most loyal companion, his devoted friend and lover, and Moran says nothing of this, no matter how hurt and disappointed he may be at being shunned; at being addressed curtly as if he is a mere employee. This state cannot continue indefinitely however, and so it comes to pass, when Moran unthinkingly answers for the professor on the matter of what they would like for supper, Moriarty snaps.

   “How dare you?” he snarls the instant that they are alone, his voice low, cold and clear. “How dare you, Colonel?”

    “How dare I what?” Moran asks, entirely oblivious to what he has just done.

    “How dare you presume to make decisions for me? How dare you try to decide what I should eat, how I should dress, how I should run _my_ empire?”

    “ _Your_ empire?” Moran snorts, and his face has flushed not with shame but with anger. “ _Yours_? I had thought we were partners!”

    “Then you thought wrong! You are my employee, Colonel, no more.” Moriarty rises, a little unsteadily, leaning on his cane, but he shuffles over to confront Moran head on, his relentless, implacable stare practically daring Moran to strike him.

    Moran won’t, of course, because it’s the professor. No, because he’s come to think of the professor as weak, as helpless, as in need of being coddled as a baby. None of which is the real truth of the matter, that small nagging voice in the back of the professor’s mind says, the one that has told him before when he has crossed a line and behaved appallingly towards Moran; that has even made him feel _guilt_ (something that Moriarty feels so rarely) when he has wronged him. Moran has _always_ been protective of you, it says; your injuries changed nothing in that regard save merely to heighten his protective instincts. Nor is Moran even _happy_ at having to take control – it disturbs the natural balance of things, where Moran, as strong-willed and capable of leading others as he is has always preferred to exist under Moriarty’s control. It was not just your injuries that disturbed him, that little rational voice continues, but that he was _forced_ to take charge. He didn’t want you hurt, he didn’t want to have to act as your superior.

    But that other voice within him, that petulant spiteful voice that comes out when Moriarty’s ire is raised, says, ‘ _He loves this shift in the balance of power; he has enjoyed controlling you and he does not wish to give that control back now_.’

    Moran is trembling with barely suppressed rage himself at being spoken to so. His fists clench as if he _would_ hit Moriarty, but he turns away sharply before he can act on this urge.

    “Where are you going?” Moriarty demands as Moran walks away.

    “Out! Away from you while you’re like this!”

    “Get back here!” Moriarty hobbles after the colonel. “Colonel Moran, get back here and face me right this instant, or do not ever come back at all!”

    Moran stares at him, amazement and hurt written in equal parts across his face. “After all I’ve done for you!” he cries.

    “What do you want, my perpetual gratitude?” the professor sneers. “For me to get on my knees before you and proclaim to you how wonderful you are? How thankful I am for your benevolence, oh mighty colonel?”

    Moran gives a disdainful laugh. “You’ve lost the fucking plot, Professor.”

   “Ah, of course, which is why you presume to think you can take over all of my activities, plotting robberies and forgeries yourself, never even thinking to consult me!”

    “Well somebody bleedin’ had to, didn’t they?” Moran all but shouts at him. “How else did you expect to pay for all your fancy doctors?”

    Moriarty slaps him across the cheek. Although the blow is weak the sheer shock of it makes Moran stagger, so completely is he taken off guard. Perhaps it is that alone that enables the considerably weaker professor to grip Moran’s hair and wrench him to the ground, forcing him roughly to his knees.

    “You, Colonel,” he says fiercely, “have forgotten your place!”

    Moran lets out a pained grunt at being brought down so, but makes no move to rise, nor any protest. His head is bowed now, his shoulders hunched, not fighting even as the professor raises the cane to bring it down in a blow across Moran’s back that he _knows_ could well cause him lasting harm.

    Moran’s gaze snaps up to meet his now, his eyes looking strangely misty, his voice husky with barely contained emotion when he says, “Go on then. Hit me; kill me if it’d make you feel better.”

   And Moriarty knows in that moment that Moran would not fight back. He would let himself be beaten black and blue by his master, not even flinching from the blows.

    He doesn’t hit him. This anger that is seething and surging within Moriarty instead gives him the momentary strength not to strike Moran, but to seize him by the hair once more and drag him bodily across the room. He all but hurls him into the cupboard there, one in actuality that is more of a very small storeroom where he keeps some of the books and other items that would otherwise clutter his rooms, and before Moran can fully comprehend the situation Moriarty has slammed the door behind him and turned the key in the lock. Thoroughly drained of energy then, Moriarty slumps to the ground, his back to the door.

    “Professor?” Moran cries through the door. He was anticipating a beating, but not this, nothing like this. “Professor, let me out.”

   “No, Moran.” Moriarty sighs wearily, expansively. “I cannot do that.”

   “Please, Professor.”

    Moriarty can hear the unease in the colonel’s voice, the faint tremulous quality it now possesses, but still the anger in it. Moran is both frightened and furious, not fully understanding what the professor is planning.

    “Let me out now or I’ll kick this fucking thing down!” Moran punctuates this with a single kick, which rattles the stout door but does not damage it.

    “You have forgotten your place!” Moriarty snaps at him again. “You have thought to rise above me! To possess me! To control me!”

    On the other side of the barrier, Moran laughs bitterly. “You think I wanted it to be that way?” he demands. “Not knowing if you’d live or die; not knowing if you survived whether your mind’d be all right; if you’d be damaged for life.” He gives the door another half-hearted kick before he too slides to the floor, so that his back also is against the door.

    “Regardless of whether you desired it or not, you have relished it!” 

    “Like fuck I have! I did what I had to, but you know what, you are so _fucking_ welcome to have your precious ‘empire’ back. I don’t want it. I never wanted the bloody thing!” Moran sinks his head into his hands and he laughs again. He thinks if he does not laugh perhaps he might just weep in frustration and sorrow. “Professor,” he says after some moments, more softly now. There is no response however. “Professor?” he says again, and real cold dread creeps over him. What if Moriarty has gone and left him locked in here? Or, worse, what if he has overexerted himself so much he’s passed out and hurt himself somehow? He turns around, pressing his ear to the wood to try to hear something, anything, desperate to discern where Moriarty is and what state he’s in. “Professor!”

    “Be quiet, Moran,” Moriarty calls at last.

    “Let me out.”

    “I cannot.”

    “Let me out, please sir. Please.” Moran presses his forehead against the door and now he sighs deeply. “Please, sir.”

    “I cannot let you out when you cannot remember your place.” He just wanted things to be normal, the professor thinks, but if things were so wrong before, how can they possibly be normal now? When he was perfectly prepared to strike Moran the sort of blow that could have paralysed him, even killed him? Surely the instant he lets Moran out he will leave him, run far away, and Moriarty will be forced either to simply allow this to happen or to kill him. Either way the place by his side will be empty. Either way Moriarty will be left alone. What Moran managed to salvage from the ruins of his empire may be cold comfort to him then.

    Love is a weakness, he always thought, and Moran is surely proof of that. His love for Moriarty has made him soft; vulnerable; has made him behave quite unlike the cool, composed killer he truly is and more like some fawning lapdog, sticking to the professor even when this can only cause him distress. And yet… Moriarty loves Moran too, perhaps not with romantic passion, but he loves him. He loves this man who has served him loyally through thick and thin; who pulled him out of the water at no small risk to himself when the one person Moriarty thought might be his true equal tried to murder him; who kept him alive; who could have left him to die, left him to rot in some dingy hospital somewhere,  but who remained and cared for him with dogged devotion and somehow still found the energy to keep things running adequately, to ensure that Moriarty, if he pulled through, had _something_ to come back to after that arrogant bastard Holmes tried to steal it all.

    He loves Moran, but he hates that he feels this way. Emotions are dreadful, confusing things, unpredictable and illogical. He hates that loving Moran makes him vulnerable too and means he must put himself at the man’s mercy not by choice but by necessity at times; worse, that he has even become a _burden_ upon him. He hates that he must admit to himself that Moran was right and he was wrong – they should have killed Holmes long before it ever got to that last confrontation. And it _frightens_ him, just how much he has come to depend on Moran’s presence, on his companionship, on his capabilities, even on his love. So much so that a life without Moran seems bleak and cold and singularly unwelcome. Yet precisely because of his fear, because Moriarty is truly so unused to feeling this way, he has found himself unable to stop himself treating Moran as his whipping boy, blaming him for the actions of others or even those of himself, and driving him to do exactly what Moriarty fears now: to leave him.

    “I know my place, sir,” Moran says softly, and his voice is quavering again. “Please, sir, please open the door.”

    “I cannot. I cannot…” _I cannot lose you._ He has lost so much, he cannot lose Moran too, and surely the colonel is only saying this to try to escape. Surely he cannot still care for Moriarty, can he?

    “Please,” Moran all but begs now. “Please sir, I know my place, my place is with you, by your side, at your feet, wherever you want me sir, but only with you. _Please_.”

    Moriarty hasn’t heard Moran beg like that in months. Usually such pleas are uttered during their private games, with Moran begging for release, but there has been nothing like that since before the fall. What he does not and cannot possibly know though is of all the pleas that Moran uttered silently through all the many hours while Moriarty remained unconscious, sometimes naturally, sometimes drugged so as to keep the pain at bay.

     _Please don’t die. Please don’t let his brain be damaged. Please don’t leave me. Please._

   A constant barrage of thoughts going endlessly around Moran’s overwrought mind, and the memory of this is enough to make two tears spill over and trickle down his cheeks just at the moment when Moriarty yields, whether to Moran's entreaties or his own yearnings, and unlocks the door.

    “Colonel,” Moriarty says. His face is very pale, save for spots of hectic colour in his cheeks.

    “Sir.” Moran quickly rubs the tears away with the back of his hand, although perhaps not before Moriarty has seen them.

    “Moran.”

    “Professor.” Moran makes no move to exit the cupboard now, evidently seeking permission to do so.

    Moriarty turns away, leaning heavily upon his cane but still wobbling slightly. Moran has to suppress his instincts to rush forward and assist him, knowing now that such a presumptuous move would be unwelcome.

    “Sebastian,” Moriarty says, his voice sounding hollow with fatigue now. “If you would be so kind as to lend me your arm.”

    “Yes sir.” Now Moran moves to him, offering the professor a strong, supportive arm, letting Moriarty lean against him and helping him over to the chair. There, once sure Moriarty is seated comfortably, Moran drops to his knees again, willingly now, and he bows his head so that his forehead just touches the professor’s knee. An act of submission offered not out of fear but out of forgiveness and love, an act which doubtless Moriarty does not really deserve but which he will accept anyway. “Professor,” Moran says.

   “Sebastian.” He strokes Moran’s hair gently. He cannot give a verbal apology, nor can he tell Moran that he wants him to stay. That much is beyond him, but he can do this – show a degree of tenderness towards Moran that he has not demonstrated in many months.

    “I want you to be well again, sir,” Moran tells him, still keeping his head down. “That’s all.”

    “I know.” The professor rests his hand upon Moran’s head.

    “I know I ain’t as smart as you, sir, but I ain’t a fool either. I know things aren’t gonna be the same again as what they were but you… you can be brilliant again, and I would never try to take your place. I only kept things ticking over for you because I had to. I know too I slipped up now, answering for you. I didn’t mean to, I’m sorry sir, it were just habit. I don’t _want_ to be in charge of you.”

    “I know, my boy, I know that.” Moran may be no fool, the professor thinks, but perhaps _he_ is.

    “And I thought…” Moran seems to choke momentarily, and Moriarty suddenly becomes aware that the fabric of his trouser leg is becoming wet where Moran’s face is pressed against it, and he grasps the other reason why Moran cannot meet his gaze now. “I thought I’d lost you,” Moran says, between faint sobs. “Not just once, too many times.” When he saw the professor hit the water; when he pulled him, limp and seemingly lifeless, from the river below the falls; when after being revived and tended to Moran sat awake by his bedside, listening to the professor’s breath rasping in his chest, then hearing that sound ceasing for what in reality was only seconds but to Moran seemed like an eternity, and then once Moriarty began to recover, he began to shun Moran.

    “I am here,” Moriarty tells him, carding his fingers through Moran’s hair now. “I am alive, somewhat broken, still in pain, but alive. I have lost much that cannot be recovered, I know this, yet dare I hope that I still have you?”

    “Of course you have me, Professor.”

    “My companion; my _partner_.”

    Moran finally looks at him when he utters this last word, and his eyes are red-rimmed. When Moriarty moves his hand to cup Moran’s cheek it is still damp from his tears.

    Moriarty may not be able to say many things – _I was wrong; I’m sorry; I need you; I love you_ – but he _can_ say one thing, and so he looks now into Moran’s eyes and says softly: “Thank you.”

 


End file.
